


Binary Stars

by thefullergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Coffee Shops, College, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Outer Space, Short & Sweet, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefullergirl/pseuds/thefullergirl
Summary: There are only three things that have been constant since Sherlock Holmes stepped foot in the university. He wasn’t very fond of patterns, doing the exact same tasks everyday on the dot bothered him. He studied the patterns of others, interested in what exactly made them move like clockwork, and how the slightest disruption could affect people.When Victor walked away, Sherlock was reminded that it was always more interesting to deviate from the usual.





	1. //firsts

_"And what do we say about coincidences?"_

_"The universe is rarely so lazy."_

 

Tap, tap, tap.

It was the third time in half an hour that Victor reread the page. The ballpen he'd picked up near the office was a bit worn, and he ran his thumb across the grooves of the scratches and bites. He wasn't absorbing any of the colored blocks staring up at him. Letting the server get his half-finished coffee, he was tempted to abandon the schedule.

Far too early on a damp Tuesday, tiny droplets of rain racing each other on the window beside him. He always disliked the thought of firsts, the uncertainty and the hesitance associated with it, and yet how much firsts are celebrated. First birthday, first walk, first time on the ice, first flight, first friend. There were boxes in a forgotten home that had photographs and videos as proof of the events, which were pulled out too often. For him, it wasn't the first, it was all the ones that came after. Sure now, maybe steadier, less of the anxiety that laces the first try. Better.

Far too early on a damp Tuesday, he realized that today was another one of those. And the thing about firsts is sometimes you have to ask someone for help.

His eyes scanned the crumbling place that the students called the café. There was a pair that was practically asleep on their geography textbooks, heads dropping to a map. A handful of individuals cramming essays and presentations on their laptops were scattered across the place, their typing tense and at least two empty cups on their tables. At the table beside him, a small group of girls were frantically searching their bags in search of an item for their experiment. And a lone boy, his sweater rather loose on his slender frame, writing determinedly on several sheets of paper.

Victor thought it over, tapping irregular beats on the metal table. Would they recognize him if he stood up and walked? The familiar tangle of letters that is his name was imprinted in so many different places that it felt like the thousands, maybe millions that knew it would know him from a mile away. He had assured himself that he was used to it, nothing new. But this was the kind of place he couldn't memorize, despite three day trips already. To be able to get around, he needs quite a bit of help.

Tentatively, he wrapped his dark blue scarf around the lower half of his face, and stood up with his schedule in hand. He crossed the tiny space to the boy still focused on his writing, sitting down in the seat opposite. The boy's head raised to meet his gaze, and he squinted his storm-gray eyes ever so slightly.

"You must be rather popular. Used to the fame and yet so unsure in situations like this. Educated, but your mentor was unsatisfied with the school you were in, presumably Europe? Athlete too, several significant wins in the past few years, and apparently can't find his way to his first class, which is AP History. It's four doors down from this, on the left," the boy said, right before turning back to his work. Victor hadn't even taken off the scarf, which was probably good, since he didn't want him to see how he gaped.

It took a while before he could find any words. "I-uh...what?"

Without looking up, the boy answered, "Four doors down, on the left. Professor is usually late. Get a thick notebook for it, might prove to be helpful. And get some of those cooling pads for your shoulder, seven doors down, on the right."

As if on cue, his shoulder reminded him of the dull ache that had been there for a few days. He stood up, preparing to say thank you but finding his words lost in his throat. His hand extended, his mind rather muddled.

"T-thank you, uh, I didn't get your name." he managed. He hadn't said a thing, knew that his records weren't released nor was anyone in the school informed of his enrollment. The scarf was still around his face.

The boy looked up, the smallest hint of a smile on his delicate mouth. He took Victor's hand and said, "Sherlock."

"I'm Victor. It was nice to meet you, Sherlock."

They broke off the handshake and Victor was leaving when he heard a response. Sherlock's head was already down and he was back to writing, but said loud and clear, "You miss your dog. I miss mine too."

Victor stiffened at that. Before he could even begin thinking of asking him how he could possibly know, he started walking briskly to the nurse's office. He needed the cooling pads for his shoulder and possibly a good slap from reality.


	2. //patterns

There are only three things that have been constant since Sherlock Holmes stepped foot in the university. He wasn’t very fond of patterns, doing the exact same tasks everyday on the dot bothered him. He studied the patterns of others, interested in what exactly made them move like clockwork, and how the slightest disruption could affect people. There was the sweeper who would be at places at the exact time he was the day before. The freshman girl who would order a tall mug of coffee with one shot of milk everyday at 9 am at the café across the street from the university, no matter what the weather was. He rid himself of such incessant habits, knowing that there are so many more to be explored in the less familiar. However, he allowed himself a handful of facts that remained true throughout his stay.

The first would be that he can function on at most 5 hours of sleep a week. People have always said that he was a night owl, a vampire of sorts. Some admired him for the willpower he had during finals, not giving in to the lull of sleep despite the sheer exhaustion a majority of the student population experienced. Several asked him if he had any type of performance drugs hidden in his pockets and if they could try those, but he only offered them a kind look that said that that was enough questions.

Many a night, he would lug an armful of books into his almost-empty room, planning to read the majority of them in preparation. Sliding out the slim case from under his bed, he would hum a tune that only he could know. He perched his chin on the familiar groove at the bottom of the violin, and he would play softly, following the letters on his physics readings. A melody would come out of the randomness of it all, and it helped with the absorption of the blocks of words. In class, he would soundlessly tap the rhythm on his rough desk to remind himself of the string of letters that would solve the problem.

Although he would never admit it, he liked the dawn more than any other time of the day. It was the softening of the cold darkness into colors that suggested a new life blossoming. It was giving in, not into the cruel uncertainty of the night, but the hopeful light of day. He liked watching the changing from his 3rd-story window, knowing that it could very well be the only thing that quieted everything within him.

This leads to the second constant in his life: No roommate has ever lasted more than a few months.

He tried, truly he did. The first one was a younger boy, his shirts more made for the summertime than the chill of London. That one moved in with almost a roomful of luggage, which he threw haphazardly around. He used to plop into the top bunk reeking of cheap cigarettes while Sherlock tried to focus on his essays. Sherlock could have endured the disturbances that his roommate brought along every waking moment, but his roommate could not last with the first unsure strains of the violin music. There were too many experiments and too many books and it was suffocating for him. He lasted a little under a semester.

The next few ones were nitpicky types, with a penchant for cleanliness and order. At 11, it should be lights out, there would be a rotation with the laundry and the cleaning, a printed out schedule of their bathing times and use of the bathroom. And Sherlock, never adhering to much of anything, would try to open the creaky door quietly at all hours of the night as he shuffles in a borrowed microscope and a bundle of scientific journals. He disliked the control that they enforced upon him, and that only became unnecessary rows that ended up with the door being slammed behind relatively new roommates.

One after another, nobody wanted to stay in the 20 square meter box with him. He had put up posters in the hopes that somebody would take up on it, but tore them down a few days later, knowing that it was a futile search. He stayed in that tiny box, playing his violin and not eating for days while reading his books in the dark, without having anybody tell him that it was too late or too early or he was not being a good roommate.

And that would lead to the third constant, which is that he will not talk unless addressed to or he needs to get something. This eliminates the possibility that anyone will pick up a fight with him over what he said, when he merely observed their actions and appearance. He has been told by his brother that most people consider it offensive, and he should keep himself from saying much.

So for 3 years, he lived in his own bubble, almost untouchable. He would sit at the front of each class, not making eye contact with anyone unless needed. This worked for him. He didn’t want to engage in another conversation about what everybody was going to do during the school break, or the discussion about which teacher they hated the most. He was good at finding quiet nooks where he could almost disappear, completely absorbed in articles that went into the depths of human impulses. It was safe there, in the spaces that barely anyone knew about or really noticed. If anybody talked to him, he would respond nicely and would refrain from making any observations on their person.

He would write what he saw afterwards, just so that his mind had a sense of peace. He used this to see patterns, see how certain similarities can define a line of work or a background. This tiny detail could differentiate two otherwise similar objects or concepts. There was always power in just observing, but it was power that he swallowed down.

Sherlock could not understand how the very moment the stranger approached him, a part of him said to break the habit. His mouth pronounced the words before he could bite them back, much less think about their weight all that much. He went back to his work right after it to hide the shame that he could feel crawling up to his face. How could he disregard the only reminder he was given by his brother, and to a complete stranger that would possibly never speak to him again after that? He didn’t want to think about it anymore, but it nagged at him. Wondering about what to do next, he was surprised when the stranger responded.

“I-uh…what?”

It didn’t sound angry, more puzzled. Sherlock eased a bit. He repeated his words, and added that he should get pads for his shoulder. It wasn’t all that visible, but he observed a slight wince when the stranger was about to remove the scarf.

That was the first time in a while that somebody asked for his name. Usually they would just tell him to go away, in less kind words. It was relieving in a way, albeit awkward. He could hear the slight uncertainty in the stranger’s voice when he said his own name. The way he held himself said that he was used to attention, used to crowds, but their encounter had made him stumble over his words.

When Victor walked away, Sherlock was reminded that it was always more interesting to deviate from the usual.


End file.
